And The Rest Will Come
by Aku Soku Zanza
Summary: After the Inception job, Robert Fischer finds himself dozing off on trips, always to be greeted with his head of security, Mr. Charles, with whom he's fallen in love. Little does he know it's Cobb himself, being with him the only way he knows possible.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

As he walked briskly through the crowded station, Robert Fischer glanced down at his white-gold wristwatch, a present from Uncle Peter for his last birthday. _Oh, good, only 3:15,_ he thought, breathing a sigh of relief. He would make it on time for the next train back to Los Angeles.

If he'd believed in superstition, he'd have found it quite eerie that such a string of bad luck had been following him since his father passed, as if he were being haunted by his specter. _Unfinished business, perhaps?_ He would have told his father that it was okay, that he already knew what he'd had to say. That is, if he believed in such tomfoolery… which he most certainly did not.

Still, he had to wonder why every time he needed to travel to promote his new start-up company, Fischer Logistics, Inc., his private jet and vehicles would find themselves in varying states of disrepair. This time one of the engines of his plane was making strange noises, and his personal mechanic was on holiday. Grudgingly he took the only available option: public transportation.

"Hello? Mr. McDaniels? This is Robert, yes, I'm doing very well, thank you. I'm sorry to inform you, but I may be an hour or so late for the meeting. You see, my jet is having issues again. Yes, again. Don't I know it? Anyway, there were no more seats on flights out today, so I was forced to take the train. Uh huh, it's been a while for me as well. Okay, glad to hear you can cover for me until my arrival. Thank you, and see you in a bit," Robert hung up and replaced his cell phone in his breast pocket as he rested his head back against the cushioned recliner. At least the seats were comfortable in First Class.

As he sipped at his glass of Perrier, he felt himself become drowsy. That was another thing that had changed recently: his stamina for long trips had withered away, making him feel prematurely old. Any time he endured any significant sort of travel, he felt himself fall almost immediately into the land of dreams.

This time was no exception. A moment of emptiness, as if he were sucked into the vacuum of deep space, and then _poof_, he resurfaced in a new universe entirely.

"You again," Robert said tersely to the man next to him at the hotel bar, trying to mask the uncontrollable smile curling his lips, placing in its stead a cool nonchalance.

"Always so happy to see me," the blond man returned the grin as he straightened his tie, glancing fondly at Robert as if he had been waiting eagerly for his arrival. He ordered a scotch from the bartender, who eyed him somewhat warily but poured his drink nonetheless, sliding it forward carelessly. A few drips spilled over, and Robert offered his handkerchief to his ever-present dream companion.

"Thank you, Mr. Fischer," Mr. Charles said, sopping up the alcohol from the counter gingerly. Robert sipped at the glass of carbonated water that had been waiting for him; he didn't like drinking in dreams, preferring to experience everything with as much lucidity as possible. But he almost wanted to make an exception today, due to the task he'd promised himself to accomplish.

After a pause, Robert began reluctantly, as if reading from some ill-drafted script, "I, um, appreciate your watching over me, but I assure you that there is no longer any danger. You've prepared me well enough by now, and I am perfectly aware of what my father intended for me. My business is doing well, and I am self-sufficient to the point that Uncle Peter is in shambles at not being able to call any more shots."

"He is a bit of a control freak, isn't he?" Mr. Charles chuckled, but his laughter fizzled to respond to the serious nature of the proposal. "But what does this _really_ mean, Mr. Fischer? I support your newly-found independence wholeheartedly, but the idea that you'd want to be rid of me… well, that does sting a bit."

"That's the very issue," Robert replied, biting at his lower lip nervously. _Why is it so hard to break up with your own subconscious? No… I believe the question is, why did you fall in love with a figment of your imagination in the first place?_ "You see, I don't think this is healthy for me… I know that you live solely in my head, and that I am talking to myself right now. But I find it necessary to explain to you, on account of the times that we've shared together, that I can't live like this anymore."

Mr. Charles slid his hand close, placing it over Robert's, whose owner stiffened initially but allowed himself this one last indulgence. Their fingers intertwined, Mr. Charles replied, his voice no louder than a murmur, "Are you saying that you wouldn't miss this? That you wouldn't miss _me_?"

"I… That's… that's not what I meant. It's that I care _too_ much about something that doesn't even exist to anyone but me," Robert explained gruffly, trying to restrain himself from pulling his erstwhile lover into an embrace. "You don't exist." _And it torments me every waking hour that we can't be together in reality._ "I need to move on with my life. Be my own man like you encouraged me to be. So I can't rely on some phantasmal protector I've conjured up." _Even if I inadvertently fell for him._

A tense silence prevailed. Mr. Charles seemed to be struggling to come up with a reason, any palpable reason why he should continue to represent Robert Fischer's mental security squad, but he drew only blanks. There was no reason for this, never was; it had been raw, instinctual, inexplicable love from the start. "So this is the last time…?"

Robert sighed. "I know I can't control what my subconscious decides to show me in dreams, so we may see each other again. This is possible, even likely. But I just want it to be understood that there won't be anything more between us. We're both a part of me after all." _What was that phrase that I vaguely remember? We're lovers—two halves of a whole._

Mr. Charles nodded slowly in defeat, his gaze staring off into space. "Right. You're the boss." But at that moment, he never would have expected Robert to pull him close by their clasped hands, kissing him for dear life, pressing their lips together as if one were drowning and the other were air.

_How will you breathe now?_ Robert asked himself as they separated, his internal resonation bittersweet. _I guess I'll just have to learn how to swim on my own… or die trying._

"Goodbye, Mr. Charles."

"Goodbye, Mr. Fischer."

* * *

Cobb looked forlorn to say the least as he hung up his jacket and tossed his keys onto the kitchen counter. "Did the kids behave?" he asked in a monotone, already aware of the answer.

"Of course, Dom. They've always been perfect angels," Miles replied as he sat comfortably at the dining table, eyeing his son-in-law from behind his reading glasses as he perused an architectural journal.

"Good, good," Cobb said, expressionless as he removed an unread letter from its envelope and put it back in three times with unsteady hands. Every time he woke up from one of his and Robert's shared dreams, it was a rush. A rush to repack the PASIV and exit the premises—or in this case the First Class cabin—before his subject awoke. It had usually been accompanied by a glow, a burst of joy that lit up his face for the next week with smiles so wide his cheeks hurt. However, this time, it had been completely different. He moved almost sluggishly, as if he wanted to delay the inevitable, forget the truth that they'd never see one another again. Nevertheless, he clicked the metal case shut and shuffled out the door just in time, hearing a languid yawn escape behind him.

But that was then, and this was now. Now he was home again, to resume the life he was meant to follow, to accept that in this life, his and Robert's paths were never meant to cross. In fact, if the young Fischer were to find out that he'd been sabotaging his vehicles, lying to him about being his head of security while sneaking into his dreams, not to mention illegally incepting him with false information, information that had rebuilt him and caused him to believe himself again, why… Cobb could never live with himself. Probable prison sentences and millions of dollars in civil liability aside, he could never live with the idea that he was responsible for carrying Robert up high to the tallest mountain, only to push him off the edge of a cliff, to watch him tumble the endless distance to the ground below.

Miles cleared his throat, breaking Cobb's deep reverie. "But I think the pertinent question here is whether you're okay. Every time you come home from these so-called business trips—which, by the way, seem to take a lot out of you—I wonder if you've gotten yourself mixed up with thieves and scoundrels again. Please, Dom, for my sake and for the children's sake, tell me if there's something I should know."

Cobb forced a reassuring smile, braving his despair to try and put the past behind him. He'd overcome his guilt about Mal's death and come to terms with her absence, promising that he'd raise their kids with as much love as a father could muster. So why couldn't he just blink away this forbidden romance, brush it off like the silly fantasy that it was? "Even if there were anything to share with you, Miles, I'm through with this business now. I'm home for good."

* * *

Robert tried his best to breathe despite his head being wrapped in an all-too-familiar burlap sack. _Like a recurring dream._ It was suffocating, his hot breath reflected back at him due to the thickly-woven, semi-porous material. He'd just come to, disoriented—his body slamming into the side of the lurching vehicle with every gear-shift—and licked his bottom lip, which felt strangely hot, tasting blood and realizing that it was cut, most likely from bumping into something while unconscious. Trying to move his limbs, Robert found that his hands and feet were bound tightly at the wrists and ankles. _A kidnapping if I ever experienced one._

The question was, however, whether this was within a dream or reality. He pondered hard as to his last memories before finding himself taken for ransom. He saw flashes of orange… the sky as the sun was beginning to set over the horizon of shopping malls and parking garages… It had been evening, and he had been purchasing something, a gift. Perhaps for his old friend from boarding school, who had recently confided in Robert that he was to become a father. He nervously paced the room, pondering his failings and the many ways he wasn't fit to be a role model to his future son. "You'll be a great father," Robert had replied, surprised at how choked up he'd suddenly become. "Just show him how much you love him, and the rest will come."

But this didn't explain anything. He could have fallen asleep on the trip back: his chauffeur was a meticulously cautious man, and his limousine was particularly adept at shock absorption. Or, on the other hand, it was perfectly possible that he had been drugged and stuffed, like a turkey in the oven, into the getaway vehicle by greedy mobsters.

He had his ten million dollar kidnapping insurance policy, of course, but… any dirtbag with insider information would quickly find that they could easily demand more than fivefold as long as they sent properly menacing threats to Uncle Peter and his formerly conglomerated corporate group. Ten million… that was a trip around the block for them.

Besides, kidnappers, if truly professional, could always grab the money and dispose of him in any fashion they saw fit, including, of course, death. Robert tried to keep his heart from racing and his lungs from hyperventilation as he huffed the recycled air.

_If only you were here, I could bear it. Just to see you one last time…_ He hadn't so much as caught a glimpse of Mr. Charles since that last farewell, and his slumber had suffered accordingly. Sleepless nights he spent strolling aimlessly through his penthouse condo in the darkness, as if, by the grace of some magic he'd never believed in, his lover would appear before him, forgiving him for his thoughtless words. _I never wanted to say goodbye; I didn't realize that you'd cease to be a part of me, somehow. And now that you're gone, I just don't feel like the same person anymore. I want me back, and to have that, I have to have you as well._

But, as he knew, there was no such thing as ghosts, as magic, as fairy tales with white knights who sweep in to rescue their damsels in distress. Yet Robert still clung to the thin threads of belief that, dream or reality, Mr. Charles would materialize before him at the last possible moment… and that there would be such a thing as "happily ever after."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

An ear-piercing clatter as the bowl of oatmeal and peaches, hot from the stove, toppled to the linoleum floor, shattering into a thousand pieces and spraying gooey sweetness across the cupboards. Cobb had just flipped the television to the morning news before helping himself to the warm pot, whistling as he listened to the anchorwoman expound on the news of the day.

_Fischer-Morrow heir, Robert Fischer, son of the late Maurice Fischer, who had made history in dismantling his father's empire just three months earlier, was reported missing minutes ago by close friend and relative, Peter Browning. He was last seen shopping at the Yves. St. Laurent boutique at North Rodeo yesterday evening, where, witnesses say, a white van with tinted windows stopped in front of his path, and two men in ski masks pushed him inside the vehicle. We were unable to identify the license plate number as it was obscured, but please call in to the special hotline if you spot a suspicious white van in the area. We will keep you posted as more details surface._

Phillipa and James dashed into the kitchen in their pajamas, both still clutching their respective stuffed animals and rubbing their eyes from the harsh awakening. "Daddy, what happened?"

Cobb realized his hands were shaking as he stood helplessly in the middle of the kitchen, his undershirt and shorts covered in goops of oatmeal, which slid down his legs and congealed. "It's… it's nothing, honey. Daddy had an accident and made a mess. He'll clean it up and make you both breakfast, okay?"

They nodded, and he did as he promised, putting himself on autopilot as he swept up the mess carefully and wiped down the surfaces, including a cursory toweling of himself. Cobb fetched the kids some powdered sugar for their bowls and joined them at the table, cupping a much-needed mug of black coffee in his frozen fingers. He gulped it down despite the temperature, burning himself but too numb to care.

In the past few weeks, Miles had returned to France, his sabbatical having ended when Cobb released him of his childcare obligation, thanking him profusely for his time and dedication. He himself had made a grand effort to forget, to cherish what he and Robert had had at face value: a beautiful dream… but ultimately one that couldn't last.

When they scampered back to the playroom, Cobb was finally able to think. _Robert. Who had a beef with Robert? Or, rather, who wanted a piece of his fortune?_ He grimaced. _The whole fucking world, that's who._ Okay, a different approach then. _Who had access to his scheduling information and whereabouts?_ This, he could narrow down. Uncle Peter, for one, was always in the know, although a bit less informed lately considering his delay in filing the missing persons report to the authorities. Fischer had made it a point of slipping out from under his overbearing uncle's thumb and assuming his role as an independent adult. He was a distinct but unlikely possibility, considering that Browning had even reported the incident at all. Then there was…

_Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck._ Cobb nearly rammed his fist into the wall in anger. Anger at himself. He suspected that he was making a risky decision when he'd first contacted a man he knew back when he was into the dreamsharing business. Ted Carlson. If you needed to hunt someone down, track them like a wild beast, know when they ate, slept, took showers, he was your man. But Mr. Carlson wasn't known for his upright morals: in fact, he didn't give two shits about who you wanted to tail or what you had planned as long as the price was right. And in this case, he'd given Cobb quite a bargain when quoting him for the Fischer sabotage and intel because the price was right… as long as he could later circle in on the mark himself and extort his own ransom.

"Goddammit, Ted, answer your fucking phone," Cobb hissed, attempting to keep his voice low as he shouted at the man's voicemail. He was usually good about answering his phone, so he could only assume the worst. _Conclusion?_ Ted Carlson was definitely involved with the kidnapping.

Although Ted had connections aplenty, he wasn't the most popular human being thanks to his repute for brutality and willingness to smite loyalty in the face. Any hired goons would have to be mercenaries, contracted specifically for the job at hand. This was a helpful fact because it would then be easier for Cobb to gain access to Robert…

_Wait a second. What the fuck are you thinking, Dom? Mercenaries or not, these bastards are not just playing games. They are trained professionals who have no scruples with snuffing out an extra life along the way. Think about your children, Dom, and the promise you made to Mal. You can't afford to put your life at risk for some fleeting romance, especially when the man doesn't know your damn name, and if he did, he wouldn't hesitate to have you arrested._

True, this was all true. Except for the fleeting part: supplanting his conscious mind with other thoughts didn't leave any lasting impression on his own subconscious. By day, he was a doting father, spending ample time with his children, but by night… by night Cobb was Mr. Charles, and within his dreams, he could see him once again. He let the cautionary words wash over him as his hands dialed a familiar combination on the telephone. _So much for self-control._

"Hello, Arthur," Cobb said matter-of-factly. "I have a favor to ask of you."

* * *

"Five hundred and fifty million dollars? Are you out of your fucking mind?" Browning shouted into the receiver, beads of sweat forming on his reddening face. His assistant tried to calm him down, reminding him of his heart condition, but to no avail. "Of course his life is worth that much to me: he's my dear nephew and godson. But listen, I'm telling you no one has that much cash just sitting around. It's all tied up in investments. Ten million I can pull from insurance easily, and I can get you another ten million from my own assets, but the amount you're asking is absolutely ridiculous!"

He paused for a second, listening to the garbled voice—warped by some sound software—dictate more unacceptable terms at him. "Two weeks is not enough time, even for a hundred million. As much as I loathe you bastards for what you're doing, I wouldn't lie to you about something this important, dammit. I'm telling you, it's the plain truth."

He gasped, clutching the phone and waving his hands in the air upon hearing the reply. "No, no! Wait! Don't hang up yet. Please, we can negotiate as long as you are reasonable with your terms. No! Don't hurt him, please." His knuckles turned white as he squeezed yet harder. "Is that him I hear in the background? Robert? Are you there? Can you hear me? Please, let me speak to him!"

But then the dialtone came on as the call ended abruptly. Peter Browning sank into his leather couch—the very picture of defeat—and coughed, hacking into his clenched fist. He gasped hoarsely, "Water, water…"

The assistant quickly provided him with a fresh glass, of which he drank half in one thirsty gulp. "Dammit, these filthy bastards drive a hard bargain, Thomas. We may have to sell off half of what's left of Fischer Energy, Inc. to be able to pay the ransom."

Thomas patted him lightly on the shoulder and took his finished glass when he was through. "I know what you're thinking. 'I smell bankruptcy.' But, whatever it takes, sir, for your nephew's life. And you have two weeks to come up with an alternate plan."

Browning nodded sagely. "You're right, Thomas, you're right. His father would have my head for letting it get this far… but dammit, Maurice," he said, raising his gaze to the ceiling, "I'm doing the best I can."

Robert, on the other hand, hadn't been able to make a single coherent word throughout the phone call: he was blindfolded and gagged, sitting against the wall of a dingy abandoned office building its air peppered with dust mites in the light. Myriad sheets of paper littered the matted carpet, remnants of a bygone bureaucracy.

He wanted to talk some sense into his captors, to show the idiots how dangerous their stratagem was for themselves and how they would get their due once the police—and perhaps a certain other guest—arrived to lock them up for the rest of their pitiful lives. But, of course, they had no interest in what he had to say, instead loudly contesting amongst themselves who would take which shifts and the contents of their dinner for that night.

Robert tried to think of better things to try to keep his spirits up, to take his mind off his sore body and cracked lips. _If this were a dream, where would Mr. Charles be right now?_ He'd have heard the news by this time, stirred into action out of his protective sense of duty, if not out of residual love. He couldn't blame the man if his spark had dimmed, fading into nothingness like the death throes of a dying star. In fact, he'd deserved it after what he'd done. But requited or not, he knew he'd bear this torch for a long time—he was not the type to easily discard his devotion—and one couldn't very well fault Robert for desiring this one final feat of heroism in his rescue, could one?

So he lay quietly, motionlessly as the faceless men chattered, feasted, and drank around him. And he waited.

* * *

"Okay, I want to make this perfectly clear to you, Dom: just because I work for the LAPD now doesn't mean I call all the shots," Arthur stated, enunciating each syllable as if doing so would drill the truth of the matter into Cobb's head.

But he was having none of it. "I understand that this is on short notice, Arthur, and I promise you I'll owe you a thousand favors in the future if you just pull through this one time. You're a respected new detective with a military specialist background, plus you're buddies with the police chief and served in the same unit as did the mayor. Don't tell me there's anything you can't pull, if need be."

"Perhaps this would be true if we had an emergency situation, but dammit, Dom, you spring this shit on me out of nowhere and won't even tell me the reason for it. How the hell am I supposed to help you if I don't even know the details of your mission?" Arthur protested, crossing his arms over his chest and covering his shiny new badge.

"Believe me, Arthur, I would divulge it to you if it were germane to the matter, but it assuredly isn't. If you've ever trusted me at all, then trust me just this once, if not because of my current pleas then for old time's sake," Cobb said, appealing to his best friend's nostalgia.

"Ugh," Arthur uttered, somewhat miffed that Cobb was taking such low blows, poking at his weak spots. "Fine, Dom, fine. You win. Now just brief me on my part of the plan, and let's get this over with."

Cobb smiled, stealthily releasing a sigh of relief. He leaned forward over Arthur's desk in his station office and asked in a shushed voice, "You looked up the properties I was talking about, right?"

"Yeah," Arthur said, unlocking the bottom drawer of his file cabinet and retrieving a neatly labeled folder. "This guy has three commercial properties in the city, as I assume you are not targeting his personal home. One is beachfront, a cargo hold near the docks. Second one used to be an office building but hasn't had a tenant in quite a few years. The third and last one is a skating rink, but it seems to be in operation. You want us to hit some or all of these places?"

Cobb mused over these facts. He didn't expect Ted Carlson to be hiding out with his own prisoner: rather, he'd be hidden elsewhere, focused on obtaining his ransom and evading any pursuit from the authorities. But no matter. It wasn't that asshole he was looking for anyway; all Cobb cared about was making Fischer whole again and restoring him to safety, as if this whole fiasco had never taken place. He felt the familiar twinges of guilt eat at him once again lately, chilling his appetite and swiping his ability to sleep, much less to dream. And he couldn't let go of the truth that this was all his fault, for giving into temptation and getting tangled up in Fischer's mind in the first place. _You should have learned by now not to mess with things that don't belong to you._

"All of them," he replied. "Just to be sure and to smoke out anyone hiding who might be related to my target, and take them in for questioning." _Might as well take Ted Carlson into custody if at all possible: two birds with one stone._

"And you?" Arthur asked, tapping the desk with his forefinger.

"I'll just have to take a gamble that the one I choose is the right one. And that's assuming that he's still being held in the city." _It's damn risky, but it's the only way I can think of._

"All right then. We got one shot, and it's all or nothing. I hope you know what you're doing, Dom. You seem out of your wits lately."

Cobb grinned, with a crease at the corners of his eyes. "I'm just putting things back where they belong."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Cobb had a hunch that it wasn't the skating rink and hoped fervently that his gut feeling would later be validated. There was no time to go snoop around on his own and, plus, he might arouse suspicion and even get himself captured if Ted saw him scouting the premises. He had the TV blaring, and the latest development in the Fischer case, according to them, was that terms of a ransom agreement were in the talks. He chuckled snidely to himself. _That was code for "the ransom price is too high, and we're trying to delay things for a better deal." Astute reasoning, Peter Browning, but I'm afraid it won't do for me. Every second that passes in which I know Robert is in the clutches of some dishonorable psychopath feels like another ten years of self-flagellation to me._

So that left two choices: the office building and the cargo hold. Cobb was puzzled by how he would make a decision when he had no basis on which to place an educated guess. Ted had always met him in a public place, such as a bar or coffee shop, each time in a different part of town. _Surreptitious bastard, really._ Thus, in spite of all his pondering, the best he could do was a fifty-fifty guess at random.

He nervously retrieved the small silver top from its resting place since he'd returned: a delicate container that used to be one of Mal's jewelry boxes, perched atop a chest of drawers. Most people would probably flip a coin, and indeed that was the logical solution. But Cobb was quite attached to divination by top, and even months of nonuse could not cure his habit of dependency on the ritual. _Now that I need you the most, please, tell me where I should go._ He took a deep breath and spun the top on his nightstand. _If it falls facing a westward direction, I will go to the office building, if instead it chooses the east, I'll visit the cargo hold._

The nimble object danced around the polished wooden surface like a ballerina doing endless pirouettes, but even it had to finally rest its weary legs, clattering to the side and sliding in a few half-hearted circles before finally coming to a full stop and a final decision. _To the docks it is._

The drive was uneventful and felt like any ordinary evening pass around the city. He'd asked one of the neighbors to watch over the children, and the older lady had obliged without hesitation. The people in his suburbs felt guilty for their initial ostracizing of the widower as a cold-blooded murderer, trying now to make amends since they'd found out he was innocent of all charges. He, on the other hand, held no grudges towards the lot: after all, "innocent" wasn't exactly a term he'd use to describe himself.

As Cobb exited his vehicle, he stood there for a second, letting the ocean scent waft over him. He had once been fearful of the sea, the pungent odor reminding him of his days in Limbo, the place where he'd made his first mistake, the place where he'd grown old, only to be jettisoned back into the corporeal reality of a young man—the experiences half-remembered. But now… now he flared his nostrils and welcomed the flavor because it held for him a beautiful dream, even if it couldn't last.  
He filed through the district of solemn gray warehouses, huge crates littering the pathway and creating a maze from the otherwise simplistic design. Around every corner, he held his breath wondering if Robert could be standing there, his aqua eyes lined with dark lashes, always so far away even when they stared right back into his own. Instead, a dark emptiness prevailed.

When Cobb reached the property in question, he scanned the premises, puzzled. It didn't seem like anyone was around. _Had Arthur forgotten? Or had they flubbed the address?_ He felt panic rise like bile within him until a member of the SWAT team, dressed in all black camo and night vision goggles, peeked out from behind another building and gestured for him to come over.

"You're Arthur's friend, right?" the cop whispered. He nodded in response. The man then said something unintelligible into his radio and gave Cobb a thumbs up, signaling that he could enter. Without alerting the inhabitants, if any, of each property, the police teams, in unison, were to set off false fire alarms while placing harmless smoke bombs to flush out the people within. He was confident there would be enough contraband to constitute grounds for arrest, even besides the fact of Robert Fischer's presence.

Cobb decided to take the back entrance, guessing that Robert, if he were here at all, would not be tucked in near the front of the structure. Already dark on the interior—this much he could tell from the vantage point of the doorway—the hiss of smoke started to fizzle into the air and blurred what little moonlight he had been using to guide his steps. He laughed inwardly at his decision to bring his trusty Beretta; even if danger crossed his path, the chances of hitting his target in these conditions were negligible.

It was total blindness. He stumbled through, feeling his way along the walls and nearly tripping on stacks of old boxes strewn around the complex. Even his sense of sound seemed impaired as the blaring sirens came on, dulled in intensity by his lack of awareness. It felt like being underwater, a world separated by the thinnest of membranes, but raising his arms, he couldn't reach the surface.

Cobb floated in a dreamlike haze for what felt like hours, but he no longer had any sense of time or even of what remained of his physical self apart from two searching hands and two timid feet. _I'm grateful for the smoke, grateful for the darkness. That way I can guide him out of here to the authorities without revealing my identity: a true head of security knows when to slink back into the shadows._

And, as if on cue, his shoe bumped lightly into something with more give. Bending down, he felt warmth emanating from the body before him. Yes, it was definitely a person, eerily silent as if in a trance. _Robert._ He groped for and unfastened the restraints on his arms and legs, pulling him to his feet. Next came the blindfold—for what good that did—and the gag: this took extra time as Cobb slowly traced his fingers over his prominent cheekbones and soft lips. _First and last time in reality we'll ever be this close again…_

But, upon tasting freedom, the first thing Robert did was to give him a mean left hook to the jaw. "Robert Fischer is not a man to be tied up and tossed around like a sack of potatoes!"

"Motherfucker!" Cobb blurted out, momentarily blinded by the pain.

"Shit!" Robert exclaimed, rubbing his knuckles. "Is that really you, Mr. Charles?"

"It doesn't matter. We have to get you out of here," Cobb bit his tongue in pain and frustration: he couldn't mask his voice. _And for how skinny you are, you can sure throw a punch._

"I'm so sorry about that. I really believed you were one of them… and that it was my one chance to make an escape, under the cover of night and noise. But still, I knew you'd come back for me," Robert said with genuine exuberance as he felt for and clung to Cobb's arm. _Could this be reality?_

Together, arm-in-arm, they scuffled back toward the exit. Despite his initial violent outburst, Cobb could tell that his companion was feeling the effects of malnourishment, weakly trailing behind him as if ready to collapse at any moment. To keep his mind active, he questioned Robert about the details of his confinement.

"They moved me here just an hour or so ago. Last second adjustment, they said: assholes wanted to be able to dump the evidence, that is me, into the ocean if anything went awry," Robert stated bitterly, hoping he'd never have to revisit such memories.

_I could_ kiss _my totem right now,_ Cobb thought, stunned at the coincidental nature of his discovery. _And whatever deities of luck and fate that exist out there, thank you for taking pity on me._ He couldn't, however, help but play the part so familiar to him once again. "As long as you're safe now, boss, that's all that matters."

* * *

The cops allowed Robert to leave on account of his physical condition, extracting a promise to be back at the station for questioning within the week. They were more than delighted with the fact that they'd caught the kidnappers without so much as lifting a finger: Ted Carlson himself had been found at the skating rink. He was half-dressed and drunkenly stumbling to the door upon hearing the alarm, a huge boon for the department considering there were already three warrants out for his arrest, one having to do with Theft by Dream, a crime with which Cobb was well-acquainted.

When the couple reached Cobb's home, guided inside by the glimmering porch light and relieving the kindly neighbor of her duties, the first thing Robert did was raid the pantry. He hadn't eaten for several days, after all. With a bottled water and a packet of cheese crackers clenched in his palms, he munched enthusiastically.

Cobb sat wordlessly next to him at the dining room table, waiting patiently for him to finish his snack. It wasn't a long wait, considering the rate at which the hungered man wolfed it down, but he wasn't looking forward to giving the explanation that was due—the one that couldn't be put off any longer. _I don't know how he'll take it, but it's better that he hears it from me right now than later from some other source._

"My name is Dominick Cobb," he finally said. "And this is not a dream."

So he told Robert everything. About his wife, about Cobol Engineering, about Saito's offer, about the Inception job, about Ted Carlson, about the secretly shared dreams, everything. He longed for some kind of reaction: outrage, anger, _any_ sort of indication of Robert's thoughts, but all he did was listen—his face unblinking, as blank as if he were being told about the climate in Nepal.

He sat silent for a long time, digesting it along with his recent meal. Cobb could feel his own insides twist into knots with every second that he awaited a response. _Please say something, anything, to end this agony. I want to know how badly I've broken you, so I know how many pieces to glue back together._

"It's almost unbelievable. Like something you'd see in a movie or read in a book," Robert broke the silence with amused curiosity, as if he were still trying to tie together the loose ends.

"Sad as it is, though, it's the truth. I'm not going to lie to you anymore, even though our whole relationship has been built on lies. In fact, you have no reason to trust me whatsoever, but I put myself at your mercy in sharing all this. If you believe a word I said, please believe that it was never my intention to fuck everything up for you, and I'm so desperately sorry," Cobb said in a jumble of guilt-ridden apologies, staring down at his hands with self-reproach.

"What do you mean?"

"You know, the false idea I planted in your head… about your father."

Out of the blue, Robert started to laugh, causing Cobb to furrow his brow. _What's so funny about this? Can't you see how I'm torn apart, the way that you should be as well?_ "I thought you, as head of security of all people, would have a better idea of who I was. What you gave me was more permanent than that. I've learned to live beyond my father's memory, a wholly independent organism. And dammit, Mr. Charles… I mean Mr. Cobb, contrary to what you might think as my 'protector,' I am not so fragile."

"Your fist mostly certainly isn't," Cobb allowed himself to join in the chuckling, although still apprehensive about Robert's emotional state.

"It doesn't matter to me how it came to be," Robert reached out across the table, beckoning for Cobb's hand, which he squeezed as soon as it was offered, "as long as it is. The same goes for us: I'm just happy to have you back. Plus, projection or not, I don't think you're good enough of an actor to have falsified who you really were."

Cobb gave him a look of disbelief, as if to question the very presumption of his sanity. "You don't seem to understand the gravity of my actions. I very well could have scarred you for life."

"And you don't have to have been perfect," Robert said. _Just show the depth of your love… and the rest will come._

Their conversation was put on hold by the staccato of little feet against the hardwood floors. The children seemed wide-awake—as they should have been since they'd been staying up, making finger-puppets with flashlights and giggling.

"Daddy, we heard you talking!"

"I'm so sorry, honey, I didn't mean to wake you."

"No, no, it's okay. We're always glad when you come home, Dad," James said, giving a hug to Cobb's arm as he couldn't reach any higher. Cobb grinned, swiveling his torso to the side to ruffle the boy's hair lovingly.

Their guest watched, enthralled by the genuine display of familial affection. If Robert had had a modicum of doubt remaining in his heart about the man he'd fallen for, it was, in that moment, entirely eradicated.

The two men sat at a bar, their eyes glowing only with reflections of each other. Each brandished a drink in his hand, swishing its contents before taking a delicate sip.

Cobb had his usual scotch on the rocks, and Robert had ordered a whiskey because it was reality, and here, lucidity be damned.

"Another, sir?" the bartender asked, eyeing the couple.

"No, thank you," Robert replied with a smile. "But call us a taxi, please. We have to be home in time to tuck the kids in."

It had been his privilege, since he and Cobb started living together, to read Phillipa and James their nightly bedtime stories, to ferry them across the river of consciousness to the dreams that lay beyond. Tonight he was ready to begin a book of classic fairy tales that he'd picked up after the last board meeting, and, although he knew it was not the case with every story, Robert now accepted that there was indeed such a thing as a happy ending.

_FIN_


End file.
